


evergreen roses

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: “You’re a surprise,” they say, sounding unsurprised.“Well,” he drawls, “I was given a little leave time by our very generous, fair King. Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”Byleth hums. “Just a quick trip south?”“Oh, y’know—,” Sylvain shrugs, “—trying to thaw out a bit before I’ve got to return to Sreng for more negotiations.”Byleth finally looks over to him, their eyes unreadable as they meet his gaze. He watches as they flick down to his jaw, the water having mostly distorted the fullness of his beard. As their eyes slowly raise back up to his, he knows exactly what they’re thinking as their eyebrows raise.“Thaw,” they echo..Sylvain’s spent the past ten months in Sreng. His first stop after updating the King is to Garreg Mach.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	evergreen roses

The sun shines brightly overhead, the noonday sky as blue as it ever gets in the mountains, barely a cloud in sight. The warmth radiating from it does little to melt the thick snow on the path his horse trods along, but he’s felt overheated since he first broke camp early in the morning.

No matter, he decides. He had picked his outfit carefully, the teals and reds of his house adorning most of what he wore. He cloak was the best part, he knows, holding the lovingly hand stitched embroidery Mercedes had sewn—a _welcome back_ that he had been gifted upon his return to Fhirdiad. Her smile had been delightful, her giggles at the cheek kisses he had pressed to her skin even more so as his jaw scratched against her.

He knows how silly it is to be as vain as he still is, but he also knows that even smelling of road and travel, the sight of Margrave Gautier always needs to impress. Perhaps less here, within the Oghma Mountains, instead of at King Dimitri’s court, but still.

Sylvain’s always liked looking pretty for those he loves more than for himself.

He draws attention as soon as his horse’s hooves hit the cobblestone roads in the village outside of Garreg Mach, the monastery looming overhead. It’s not the first time he’s visited in recent years, and with Linhardt’s position as a professor, it won’t be the last. Even so, Sylvain’s spent the better part of the last year in Sreng, trying to foster the start of what he hopes is lasting peace between them. His return to Fhirdiad had been a quiet, inconspicuous affair, and his return to Garreg Mach hadn’t even had the privilege of getting a letter warning them. He had wanted it to be a surprise—and based on the look of the villagers who seem to only recognize him by the Crest visible on his saddle, he’s done a wonderful job at that.

He doesn’t get nearly as much fanfare as he had the last time he had come to the monastery, and he’s thankful for that. The fanfare the previous time was mostly due to Dimitri—all of it was for Dimitri, really, except for Lindhardt’s part in it, and their former professor’s round of giving all of them headpats to greet them, despite their current places in Fódlan’s society.

This time, there’s not even Byleth at the gates of the monastery, and Sylvain slips from his saddle with a giddy grin at getting away with his surprise well enough that they hadn’t even bothered to pop up just to startle him.

He leaves his horse with a stablehand, with a stern warning not to give his mare any extra treats even as he proffers Lady an apple from his satchel. He leaves the stablehand baffled with a wink, slipping his pack over his shoulders as he makes his way into the monastery proper.

There are only three places within the entire monastery where he could find who he aims for. Linhardt’s frequent haunts are the fishing pond, the library, and his office, the personal study tucked away for it to discourage his students from seeking him out after class.

He opts for the pond first. The smell of freshwater and fish mix in tandem as he approaches. Winters at Garreg Mach, even with snow crunching under his boots, never seemed to have an effect on the fishing pond. The water still glimmers as he walks along the swept-stone walkways around it.

A long figure sits at the dock’s edge, fishing pole in hand, and while it’s not Linhardt, he can’t claim to be disappointed with who it is.

Byleth doesn’t even glance up from the water as Sylvain’s boots thud against the wooden dock. He sets his bag down before sitting beside them, watching as their reflections shimmer in the rippling water, the sun causing the water to sparkle.

“You’re a surprise,” they say, sounding unsurprised.

Sylvain grins, shifting to prop his elbow on his knee, resting his cheek against his fist as he glances to them out of the corner of his eye. Their former professor turned archbishop looks as they always do, their expression always a little more blank with a resting, neutral face than anyone Sylvain’s ever met before. Their eyes are still focused on the water, the only tell that they’re focused on the task at hand, the little furrow between their brow as they adjust their grip on the pole in their hands.

“Well,” he drawls, “I was given a little leave time by our very generous, fair King. Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

Byleth hums. “Just a quick trip south?”

“Oh, y’know—,” Sylvain shrugs, “—trying to thaw out a bit before I’ve got to return to Sreng for more negotiations.”

Byleth finally looks over to him, their eyes unreadable as they meet his gaze. He watches as they flick down to his jaw, the water having mostly distorted the fullness of his beard. As their eyes slowly raise back up to his, he knows exactly what they’re thinking as their eyebrows raise.

“Thaw,” they echo.

Sylvain grins, waggling his brows. “I overheated as soon as the sun rose.”

Byleth’s lips twitch into a tiny smile, and they reach a hand out, trailing their fingertips over the hem of his cloak. “I can’t imagine the cause that _isn’t_ your Faerghus blood. You’d think you’d wear something lighter.”

“And _not_ show off Mercedes’ hard work?” Sylvain questions, throwing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Professor, you _wound_ me, that you think me so cruel.”

The smile blossoms, amusement causing their eyes to roll as Byleth tries to stifle a small laugh. They shake their head, hair bouncing in loose locks around their face. “It is good to see you again, Sylvain.”

“I fear you weren’t my priority,” he says, still smiling.

Byleth’s amusement is palpable as they bring their attention back to the pond. “Understandable,” they tell him. “I would suggest places to check, but I’m certain you already know where he’ll be.”

“My next check will be the library,” Sylvain says. “If he isn’t there, I’m sure Annie will be, at least.”

Byleth gives him a sage nod, far too serious given the topic of conversation. “Annette has been studying to figure out the best way to teach one of the Academy’s newest.”

“Then it will be a joy to see her as well.”

Byleth lifts a hand without looking and Sylvain huffs a small laugh as he ducks down so his head can be pat before he rises to his feet. He leaves Byleth at the dock with a promise to find them again at dinner that night, and makes his way through the monastery.

The last time he had been here with Dimitri had been a grandiose affair for everyone involved. After prioritizing rebuilding a nation and reworking the church itself, the extensive repairs the monastery needed to function as the Officer’s Academy once more took longer than he thinks any of them would’ve liked. King Dimitri had brought half the court with him last spring to help welcome the first batch of new students under the new Archbishop. There had been far too much going on for him to be able to take it all in without running into more ostentatious flamboyance.

Seeing the monastery as it’s meant to be—not a kingdom’s war headquarters, just a _school_ —is so refreshing. He’s known for quite some time that the hard work they’ve put into rebuilding and regrowth has been showing, but here at the monastery, where he feels like everything _began_ , it feels more worth it than elsewhere.

Sylvain passes by students chattering amongst themselves, catches some of their eyes as they whisper gossip to one another trying to piece together what Margrave Gautier could possibly be doing this far south in the midst of winter. He meets every stare with a smile, relishing somewhat unfairly in the way they startle and hasten to look away once they notice they’ve been caught.

He keeps his chin up as his feet follow familiar, snow-swept pathways through the monastery, heart already thudding with giddy excitement over being reunited with those he cares for most. ****

**.**

The path to the library is still familiar to him, even after all these years. In his days as a student at the Academy, he’d often avoid the place unless he was studying with one of his other classmates, always unwilling to show the side of himself that wished to explore the shelves. During their time in the war, it was easier for him to read in the few moments of free time they had, and he always found himself at a table with Linhardt close by, books scattered over the top.

There’s not many people in the library when he slips through the doors. He gives a nod to the nun carefully replacing books, accepting her nod back with a gracious smile as his eyes dart over the room. He spots a few students clustered at one table, looking more like they’re gossiping rather than studying, and just beyond them is Annette.

There’s no sign of Linhardt as he makes his way closer to Annie, and he’s alright with that. There’s only one other place he has to check after this quick visit.

Sylvain watches her for a moment, unwilling to interrupt her. Annette’s entire focus is on the books she has open on the tabletop. Her hair sits braided off her neck, brow furrowed as she flips through pages. He’s not entirely certain she’s oblivious to _someone_ ’s presence, but he figures she’s just chalking it up to another patron, perhaps one eyeing the stack of books at her elbow.

It’s a collection, certainly. Sylvain spots some familiar titles etched onto the spines, books he had spent his own time reading over back during the war. He doesn’t step closer, avoiding her periphery as he lets his eyes go from the books back to her.

He doesn’t think he will ever get over seeing how his friends have flourished after the war. Annette’s practically glowing in the warm light seeping in through the stained-glass windows, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose more pronounced with the crinkled knit of her brow. She taps a quill against her lip, eyes roving over the words she’s reading, her notes at her side.

Sylvain dares to take a step forward, tilting his upper body so he’s leaning into her view. Annette’s eyes flick up briefly before darting back down, taking in his appearance and disregarding it in a blink.

That is, until she processes just _who_ is standing in front of her.

Her quill drops to the tabletop, ink smearing against her notes and she makes a slightly choked sound, a partial gasp as she wrenches the chair back, palms flat on the table pushing her up so she can stand.

“Sylvain!”

“Oh, well that’s not a library appropriate level of vol— _oof_!”

She launches herself at him, arms encircling his neck as all five feet of her slamming into him. He lets out a laugh as he returns her hug, watching the few other people in the library give them odd looks before returning to their books.

“Well, hi,” he greets.

Annette’s cheeks are puffed out in a pout, her eyes shimmering when she steps back enough to glare up at him. “Linhardt didn’t say you were coming!”

“He didn’t know,” Sylvain says, a peace offering in his smile. “I wanted to surprise him.”

Her eyes flit briefly to his jaw, a tiny huffed breath falling from her lips. “Well, something is certainly going to be a surprise,” she says. Her eyes trail again, but this time to his shoulders, following the drape of his cloak. She lifts a hand, running her fingers along its edge, tracing over Mercedes’ embroidery with a delicate touch. “How was Sreng?”

“Colder than here,” he tells her, and, at her lifted eyebrow, tacks on, “I’m sweaty.”

Annie gives an ungraceful snort. “Gross.”

“ _You_ hugged _me_ ,” he points out, grinning when she huffs.

“Only the once,” she insists, lifting her chin.

It’s a challenge—and Sylvain takes it as such, scooping her up in his arms. She squeals a protest that’s quickly drowned out by her giggles as he gives her the same treatment as Mercedes, kissing her cheeks and forehead until the pink marks on her skin are more visible than the blush.

“I have afternoon lessons to teach!” she hisses, bapping his shoulder so he sets her down. “I can’t believe you’d scratch _my_ face up before Linhardt’s!”

“Aw, Annie, we’re in the library,” he mock-whispers to her, lifting a hand to tap his finger against his lip. “You have to be _quiet_.”

He gets another aggravated huff and a shooing motion as Annette rubs her fingers against the red mark on her forehead. “I have a _reputation_ , Sylvain!”

“Oh—I’m sure I do, too, and yours is definitely going to be better than mine.”

She rolls her eyes. “Go find Linhardt and pester _him_ instead of me.”

Sylvain winks. “I’ve been on the hunt for my beloved. You were a welcomed interruption to my perilous journey.”

Annette laughs—more so a placating one, but a laugh nonetheless. “I’m glad to see your. . . _humour_ didn’t freeze up there in Sreng.”

He snorts, waving over his shoulder as he heads back towards the library’s exit. “That’s why I grew the beard, Annie!”

**.**

  
Tried and true, the third place Sylvain checks heralds the person at the top of his priority list for this visit.

Linhardt’s personal study branched off from his own set of chambers, far away from the main bustle of the monastery’s daily activities. Byleth had been more than willing to give him the grandiose office, unsure truly what else to do when Linhardt had rejected a standard one near the Archbishop's audience chamber.

There are candles lit to guide him as he enters the room, finding Linhardt curled over his desk.

Letters and Sylvain's own imagination hold nothing to how Linhardt looks in person, even sleeping at his desk. Strands of green hair fall about his face, spilling over his arms where they're bent to pillow his head. Sylvain can spot the peachy, sleep warm blush colouring high on Linhardt’s cheeks, his lips parted slightly with every slow, steady exhale.

It's ridiculous, how his heart aches. Ridiculous how he misses Linhardt _so much_ , despite it being the easiest thing in the world to wake him gently, with the softest press of his lips to his forehead, the tip of his nose.

Sylvain resists—just barely. He strokes his knuckles along Linhardt’s face, a gentle caress that has his brows furrowing just slightly before he settles back into sleep. Sylvain smiles down at him before looking beyond Linhardt to the desk.

He's not surprised at the mess.

Papers are strewn about without any visible rhyme or reason, small sketches of Crests and diagrams paired with his sprawling hand on the first few Sylvain glances at. He unfastens his cloak, slipping it off his shoulders. Linhardt doesn’t even stir as Sylvain drapes it across his shoulders, gently tucking the edges around him before he starts attempting to tidy the mess of his desk.

He doesn’t get very far before he gets distracted—there’s a few notations that catch his eye, alongside spotting the name of _Lysithea_ , underlined three times. He slips the paper out from where it’s wedged under Linhardt’s elbow, moving around the desk as he tries to piece together the sum of Linhardt’s most recent bout of studying.

His eyes are skimming over some of Linhardt’s notes when there’s the distinct sound of shifting behind him, a yawn cracking his jaw as Linhardt stirs.

“Oh.” Linhardt sighs deeply. “You’re a surprise.”

Sylvain glances over his shoulder, smiling, taking great pleasure in the way Linhardt’s eyes immediately drop, trailing along his mouth, his eyes widening in surprise as he sits up.

_“Oh_.”

“Hello to you, too,” Sylvain says, smile widening.

Linhardt ignores him, reaching out with one arm, his fingers making a grabby motion. Sylvain acquiesces, walking back and leaning down so he’s within reach. Linhardt hums, fingers trailing along the wiry hairs over his jaw. He’s got a furrow to his brow—the same furrow that he always has when he’s reading—studying Sylvain like he’s a piece to a decidedly intricate puzzle.

“Hmm.”

“What do you think?”

Linhardt’s eyes narrow, instead of answering. He takes his hand back, shifting up to push himself up by his elbows. He lets his eyes fall shut, lashes brushing along his cheeks as he lifts his jaw. Sylvain can’t stop the flood of affection that rushes through him, pushing out through a warm chuckle as he leans further still, letting Linhardt nuzzle against him. He tries to tilt his chin, tries to sneak a quick kiss, but Linhardt follows his movements easily, staying just out of reach so he can keep his cheek against his.

“I suppose it isn’t _bad_ ,” Linhardt declares when he sits back in his chair, looking smug despite the burn tinting his skin pink.

Sylvain grins at the sight of it, brushing his thumb along the sensitive patch of peach bleeding into his skin.

“Not bad?” He moves his thumb, smoothing along Linhardt’s bottom lip. “Can I get a kiss now, then?”

Linhardt sighs, as if it’s the worst request he’s ever heard, as if his lips don’t purse, pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb before they curl up into a smile. “I _suppose_.”

Sylvain smiles, moving his hand so he can guide Linhardt up to him. He sighs into it as soon as their lips touch, practically melting as Lin presses up into his grasp. He hears the sound of fabric shifting as his cloak falls from Linhardt’s shoulders as he reaches, a hand looping around his neck to dig his fingers in his hair.

It’s not nearly as long of a kiss as Sylvain wants. When Linhardt draws back, Sylvain starts to lay chase, but is stopped when his fingers lift and he presses a hand to Sylvain’s lips.

“You smell awful,” Linhardt tells him, without an ounce of hesitation. “You can go bathe first.”

He does his best to pout, but Linhardt just levels a look at him. “I’m keeping your cloak until you return,” he states, lifting the fabric to drape around his shoulders. “You know where the baths are.”

“You’re so _mean_ ,” Sylvain whines.

Linhardt hums, and Sylvain tries his hardest to keep his pout on his face, but it’s hard to do so with the red blossoming around Linhardt’s lips.

“Fine.” He heaves a put upon sigh. “I suppose I’ll go bathe—I’ll shave, too, just so I’m nice and clean.”

“No.” Linhardt’s eyes narrow dangerously at him. “You’re not allowed to shave.”

“Oh?” Sylvain lifts an eyebrow, stepping closer, leaning back into his space. “Why’s that?”

“I like the beard,” Linhardt answers. He leans up to give Sylvain a quick peck, just to placate him. “But you smell like a horse. Go on.”

Sylvain huffs a laugh, tilting to press a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” Linhardt tells him, shuffling his papers around. Sylvain settles for one more kiss to his forehead before he straightens, slipping his bag back onto his shoulder.

Sylvain chances one glance back when he reaches the door, and his eyes land on Linhardt already settling back to his nap. Sylvain’s smile stretches across his face, and he turns, readying to go give Linhardt more kisses before leaving, but a muffled command comes from where Linhardt has nestled his head in his arms again.

“ _Don’t you dare, Sylvain_.”

“Fine, fine. I love you, you know.”

Linhardt yawns, shoulders lifting in a slight stretch before settling back down. “ _Love you, too.”_

**Author's Note:**

> unfortunately, I am in love with beardvain
> 
> I’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616)


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